


Frozen

by aussiebrd23, FinallyBlessedQuiet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post Reichenbach, dark!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-04 21:15:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aussiebrd23/pseuds/aussiebrd23, https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinallyBlessedQuiet/pseuds/FinallyBlessedQuiet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You don't lose your sense of self without losing your mind as well. Especially if that sense of self is wrapped up in one person, completely and utterly, and that person dies as you watch, powerless to stop it. For a while, you muddle along, trying your best to find a version of you not riddled with holes, but then, one day, you are certain you find that person again, but it's not them. In fact, it's not even real. So you try to end this miserable half-life of yours, but it doesn't work. Your mind is snapped, though. It makes you see a lot of things differently. Your job. Your family, or whatever of it is left afterwards. Your own face. You try and erase it, the little nagging voice in the back of your head, the voice that sounds so achingly familiar. Try and hide the mirrors, to avoid the eyes that meet you in them dead eyes, like a corpse’s. There is nothing inside you. Not. Try and work without getting too involved with what you have to do. And the funny thing is? No one notices. No one. Not even his brother. How fucked up is that?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

You don't lose your sense of self without losing your mind as well. Especially if that sense of self is wrapped up in one person, completely and utterly, and that person dies as you watch, powerless to stop it. For a while, you muddle along, trying your best to find a version of you not riddled with holes, but then, one day, you are certain you find that person again, but it's not them. In fact, it's not even real. So you try to end this miserable half-life of yours, but it doesn't work. Your mind is snapped, though. It makes you see a lot of things differently. Your job. Your family, or whatever of it is left afterwards. Your own face. You try and erase it, the little nagging voice in the back of your head, the voice that sounds so achingly familiar. Try and hide the mirrors, to avoid the eyes that meet you in them dead eyes, like a corpse’s. There is nothing inside you. Not. Try and work without getting too involved with what you have to do. And the funny thing is? No one notices. No one. Not even his brother. How fucked up is that?  
You find out the truth, one day, of why he died.You tried not to think about it for the longest time, but it keeps staring you in the face. You block out everything about him. And then one night after a particularly vicious nightmare, it comes back. And you can't take it. And then you find out that the person who killed him is still alive, and whatever frayed rope that ties you to sanity exists, it snaps. A little bit of human emotion inside you, way deep down, starts to rise up and seep through your veins, spreading drop after drop of a boiling murky black that winds its way around your fingers and body like a twisted embrace, and you know that whatever happens, you won’t feel anything, because the puppeteer is here, and he knows just which strings to pull.  
You start searching. And when you find him? Your hands are already drenched.  
You leave the room, go to wash up. On the way back you stop for a coffee, maybe a biscuit. You purchase a paper, read a few stories, and leave it on the table. A small smile passes over your lips as you remember the events of a few hours ago. It was wonderful, but you’re by no means done. There’s still lots more fun to be had, and you know exactly what your next move in this silly game will be.   
He isn't scared at first. At first he’s still confident, still so sure of himself. But then one day he sees what you can do, and the smile slips a little bit. That keeps you happy for the rest of the day, how a few tiny movements, a quick word can make a man that powerful shake. He should have died on the roof. Perhaps it can someday be arranged, but for now, you content yourself with causing pain.   
You haven't hurt him directly yet. You know he has feelings though. Somehow. So you hurt those instead. Like he hurt yours. You turn his own methods against him, pushing just a little more each time. Never disappearing completely, always just at the edge of his radar. Eventually you push someone he cares about off a building. Fitting, really. It was surprisingly easy to do. The hardest part was finding said cared about person, but you managed. Something as simple as a slight change in his expression when he heard the name. You’ve learned, finally, to find out about people by looking at them. What people say about genius and madness is true. It’s only after all the threads connecting you to the land of the living have snapped can you see what he does. No wonder he was so desperate for a game, in the end. Everything’s so loud, now. Especially since you remember everything.  
You have a few moments of peace when the cared about person falls off the building. It’s easier to breath, for a moment, before the sounds of sirens screeching makes reality settle over you like an uncomfortable but nevertheless there blanket it. It’s been with you, reality, this entire time. That’s all you can see now, the realness, not the lies people say, and that’s maybe what’s driving you mad. You can hear the killer screaming, even though he isn’t, quietly across the phone line that extends to him through the air, wherever he is. You let him escape, again. It was boring, holding him and resisting the urge to just bash his head against the side of a table, or maybe a window sill, the part of you that wants to draw out your revenge waring with the part that wants him gone now, wants both him and you gone now.   
You’re laughing now, even as you’re running, following the whisper of a ghost. You’ve been killing so much now that all it does is make the emptiness bigger, darker, swallowing you and all your thoughts until it becomes an addiction. You read somewhere that killers always have to work up to their final crime. This is no longer true with you, you could kill him, if you wanted, but you don’t because you want him hurting and empty before then, want him to be as hollow as you are. You want to turn him into a mirror of yourself, so that when you look into his eyes you're looking into the eyes of the one other person in the world who knows what it’s like to have your sense of self no longer be inside you.  
Except he was smarter than you, because his being is spread out more about the world, and he, ironically enough, has more things that he cares about, but you didn’t, you had one person and that person was ripped away from you, so now you’re going to tear him apart. Slowly, piece by piece. And then finally it’ll be peaceful. Nice, peaceful quiet, which will be brilliant. And maybe you’ll take the world with you, or try to fix it. After all, it did give you your identity, though the idiots populating did take him away from you.   
When you finally find him, you’re covered in blood already, something caused by violence you’ve done against some of his last guards. He isn't surprised to see you. Clearly he's been expecting something of this sort, there were a few more guards. No match for you, for all the training he's given you without meaning to. You’ll have to thank him for it someday. When he finally speaks, you have to smile at the new tremors in his voice, new pauses. He’s scared.  
This is perfect. But, when the times comes, instead of killing him, you offer a hand to him. Even as you know you shouldn’t, you do. And when he questions you, you give him two words in reply.   
Join me.  
He is surprised, as is to be expected. He was expecting a battle, and you gave him a way out. It’s almost funny to watch his expressions change from scared, to emotionless, to confused, to the slightly raised eyebrows indicating surprise.   
Why not kill me?  
The question makes sense. Why don’t you kill him? That’s what you want, for certain. Why else would corner him here, hands drenched quite literally with human blood. You think, for time, and then you know.  
You know the emotion now.  
He nods, and grabs your hand. You're shorter than him, but stronger, because he’s ridiculously skinny (like him, some part of your mind thinks before you squish it viciously). You notice his guard isn’t down completely yet-he still thinks it’s a trick. Good. A potential ally can’t let his defenses down easily. And to be fair, the hand he grasps is covered in the blood of his own men.  
You pull him up, and he stands, looking, ironically, only slightly rumpled. You remember how he does seem to always look clean, despite whatever scenario he’s in. At the pool, on the roof...even now. Unlike him, who always seemed to be flying off in a dozen different directions.   
What do we do?

You smile at the question. 

Would you like to watch the world burn with me?

He cocks his head, curious. The idea appeals to him. You see a spark inside him, one that you killed, and one then you have put back. This is why you didn’t kill him, in the end. Killing someone who is already lifeless is redundant. 

Yes.

His answer pleases you, but one more test. This time, the answer is up to chance. You pull out a gun, and before he can react you point it at him, and squeeze the trigger. It clicks. 

Five more. 

He understands what you mean, and you smile, before placing the gun against your temple. Click. 

Four more.

This time it’s him who states the number, you smile wider, knowing how grotesque it must look, twisted muscles in the face of a dead man. Yes, for now you are alive, both of you are alive. You stow the gun away, and later you’ll put it in a specific place. It has one purpose now, it counts down, not in time, but in empty chambers. There is one bullet, and you plan that you will be the one who loses this game of roulette. Let him try to change it, but the dice have already come up sevens, and he’s the only one who can’t see it, so absorbed in himself.

A fact that is oddly comforting, in the way that something familiar is comforting. The same way the war was. When all your friends were dying around you, the fact that your death was almost certain was like being hugged by death. Oddly comfortable. You think back to when his brother welcomed you back to the world. How right he was. You are adrenaline addicted, except now that adrenaline has a darker source.You’re almost as bad as he was, only your addiction has yet to be fully noticed by the world.

I should wash my hands. The blood has dried and thickened on my hands, cracking and splitting whenever I move. Also, it would be rather suspicious to walk through the streets of London looking as I do. 

I look over at Jim, and suddenly I’m calm. It seems strange that his murderer calms me, but stranger things have happened. The coldness inside me has grown, and now I no longer feel as if I am watching someone else control my motions.

I am myself. Utterly, myself. And I feel no remorse, no shame, no disgust at what I have done. Instead, I feel perfectly fine, as if I have just woken up from a nice long sleep. If who I was three years ago was to meet me today, he would not recognize the person in front of him. This, frozen being that I am now.

My lips pull into a smile, and I can feel its emptiness. So can the man across from me, judging by his reaction. 

What now?

There is hesitence in his voice.

Well? Don’t you have any ideas?

He nods. 

Burn it.

Excellent. And we shall start right away.  
But, first things, I must get my hands clean.   
That would be for the best.  
I smile again, then walk out of the room, Jim following me. I get to a sink and watch with detached interest as the red liquefies and drains away. All it took was a splash of water, and I am now cleared of any crime.   
I think of something, as I watch the blood of Jim’s men swirl down into the sewer, and I turn to him. He looks as if he expects a blow, but stays blank as I instead run a hand across his face.   
You’re cold.  
It’s an observation, nothing more. He nods, before dropping the fear, and I see why I let him live. Or, more accurately, why I could never have killed him in the first place. We are both frozen, frozen by the others actions against those we care about. Strangely alike, even though we have tried to kill each other before. It seems like something out of a bad teen novel. I would laugh, had I the emotional capacity to do so.  
Let's go.


	2. Chapter 2

Excellent. And we shall start right away.  
But, first things, I must get my hands clean.   
That would be for the best.  
I smile again, then walk out of the room, Jim following me. I get to a sink and watch with detached interest as the red liquefies and drains away. All it took was a splash of water, and I am now cleared of any crime.   
I think of something, as I watch the blood of Jim’s men swirl down into the sewer, and I turn to him. He looks as if he expects a blow, but stays blank as I instead run a hand across his face.   
You’re cold.  
It’s an observation, nothing more. He nods, before dropping the fear, and I see why I let him live. Or, more accurately, why I could never have killed him in the first place. We are both frozen, frozen by the others actions against those we care about. Strangely alike, even though we have tried to kill each other before. It seems like something out of a bad teen novel. I would laugh, had I the emotional capacity to do so.  
Let's go.

Where should we start?  
He’s standing, back to Jim, when he asks the questions. It’s hard for him to admit, but this man, this new version of John scares him. Terrifies him, really. The ice inside him has gone much deeper than it did with Jim. Jim was wrong when he called Mycroft the Ice Man, because the real Ice Man is standing right here. And he’s wearing a white shirt and blue jeans. And Jim is certain that one day Jim will walk in and find John with his brain coloring the walls.   
London.  
Excellent.   
Let’s begin.  
At Jim’s words, John turns, and he smiles. And it’s wrong. Smiles are meant to be expressions of joy, not whatever this is. Apathy? Anger? This is definitely a smile, not a grimace, not a wince, but a smile.  
You’re sick.  
Jim whispers this, but evidently John hears him, because he walks quietly over to the taller man. He pulls down his head, in a gesture that would have been the precursor to a kiss if it had been from someone else, and breaths.  
I know. Thank you for that, Jimmy.  
You’re welcome.  
John grins, eyes wide now. It’s still terrifying. What makes it even more so is that John has dimples. One in his cheek, and one at the side of his mouth. It’s horrible. It takes a huge amount of self control for Jim not to sigh in relief when John backs up, and finally stops bloody smiling.   
That scared you.  
No.  
You’re lying.  
John smiles again, except this one is bitter. His eyes are still wide, and slightly off focus.   
I know when people lie. He lied a lot, especially at the end.   
He starts giggling, the memory of Sherlock probably making something go off in his brain.   
He’s gone.   
Jim nods, at a loss as to what he should say.   
You caused it.  
Yes.  
That’s why I came for you.  
I know.  
John smiles wider, and it’s even more disturbing this time. He walks back over to Jim. Something flickers in his eyes, and Jim realizes. He can no longer read John, not with any accuracy. He switches between stark raving mad and perfectly sane so often that it’s as if he lost any sense of self. Jim understands, a little, after what John did to his own men, but John had farther to fall. And so he fell harder, and faster. So now John is... John is what John is. And Jim isn’t sure if he’s entirely human. It’s strange, because he was always the normal one.  
Don’t be afraid of me, Jimmy. I won’t kill you.  
That’s not what I’m afraid of.  
It’s not?  
No. I'm afraid of you being caught.  
John laughed.   
That won't happen.  
Oh?  
Instead of speaking, John demonstrates. Suddenly, the person standing on front of him is an obviously depressed John Watson, a broken former soldier.   
How did you…?  
The figure returns to the thing that killed his guards.  
Still worried?  
Jim shakes his head, and John shifts again. He runs a hand through his hair, before sighing. “Stop taunting me, alright? You won’t prove anything.”  
What do I have to prove?

“You won. Go away. Leave me to my memories and shitty present, alright?”  
If you insist.  
You’re a really bad actor, you know.   
I know.  
Not always. Sometimes you’re quite good. But I scare you, don’t I?

John is pacing again. As with the smile, it looks just normal enough to be insane. Jim wonders if maybe it was a mistake to kill Sherlock, not for the detectives sake but for his own. If he was all that was keeping John from becoming this…. or more accurately, if he hadn’t made Sherlock die in such a dramatic fashion. It had made sense at the time, but at the time John H. Watson was also a perfectly well-adjusted member of civilization.   
Yes. What happened?

My life was saved. Or at the very least, someone made sure I was still breathing.  
John shrugs, and gestures around him, to 221B, a building now seemingly devoted to preserving Sherlock’s memory in every piece of furniture, dust covering everything.   
I’m not really alive. Haven’t been since he jumped.  
What are you, then?  
John shrugs.   
Does it matter?  
Yes.  
No, it doesn't.  
Jim is about to protest when John walks up to Jim and places a hand with aching gentleness on his cheek. The hand is frozen, and Jim gasps at the realization.

You've frozen.  
Yes. Aren't you surprised?  
Yes. I didn’t expect it.  
John rolls his eyes.   
It wasn’t obvious, to a great genius like you?  
I suspect I failed to factor in emotions, as Sherlock did.  
You suspect?  
John is giggling again, holding himself around the waist, eyes wide. Jim is happy about this, something that puzzles him until he realizes why. John is, for the first time, acting insane. There’s none of the calm pseudo-sanity, or the equally distressing fake-insanity. This is genuine insanity. And it makes sense, and Jim knows where he is for the first time since John held out those blood-stained hands.  
You suspect? Don’t you know, don’t you fucking know?  
No. I never know.  
John is calm again. It’s shocking how quickly he can go from crazy to normal. Apparently that is how he hasn’t been caught by now.How long has he been like this? It has been three years since Sherlock jumped.  
How has he not seen it?  
You just weren’t looking.  
Did anyone?  
No one who can now tell you about it.


End file.
